chicken soup
by Fruityloo
Summary: murahimu week day 2: our favorite moment "All Atsushi really wants is Himuro's undivided attention." warning: reference to underaged drinking. however they're of-age for most of the fic.


Himuro said something, words too soft to hear over the club noise, soft in the way that Himuro's voice always was, in a way that always made Atsushi and everyone else who heard Himuro speak lean forward and listen. The couple who'd been chatting with them for the past fifteen minutes laughed at whatever he said, leaning forward as well but leaning too close, closer than even Atsushi would get and he had no sense of personal space. Atsushi winced at the laughter – not unpleasant by any accounts and yet it still grated on his ears. Maybe he had too much to drink.

The moment Himuro opened his mouth to reply, Atsushi took a last long, loud slurp of his drink; a fruity thing that was more sugar than alcohol, Aomine once complained to him. Aomine took his drinks straight. _Like a man_, he'd said proudly, beating his chest in what should have been humorous over exaggeration but no, it was just Aomine, being an idiot as usual. Atsushi didn't care about manliness; Aomine could burn his throat all he wanted. Atsushi would take the tasty drink over straight whiskey any time.

But just because the sugary appletinis and Shirley Temples – _aren't Shirley Temples usually nonalcoholic?_ – don't have a lot of alcohol didn't mean they didn't add up. Sugar goes down easy, no alcoholic burn, so Atsushi didn't bother counting how many drinks, and his voice of reason was busy making polite chatter with anyone who happened by their table.

Himuro is nursing his own drink slowly and _without_ the indignant slurping. The drink is something Himuro called a White Russian; it has a soft, creamy look to it and a name far more sophisticated than any of Atsushi's (the drink wasn't even advertised), and Atsushi can't help but think the drink suits him. It's still Himuro's first drink of the night and he drank slowly, moderate sips here and there. _Moderation_, Himuro's voice echoed in his head, _it's called moderation. I don't want a hangover in the morning._

Well, Atsushi didn't care about hangovers. He didn't care about anything, and especially not the people Himuro was still laughing with. Especially not them.

Drink finished, Atsushi stood, and of course _that_ got Himuro's attention, the one moment he didn't really want it. Before his legs could carry him even a step away from the table - far enough, perhaps, for Atsushi to breathe without the rose in his vision turning to red on every inhale - Himuro caught him by the arm, "Where are you off to?"

Atsushi supposed he did like the way Himuro stopped his conversation in an instant just to inquire after him. It left a better taste in his mouth than any of his drinks that night. "Finished my drink. I want another," he said, just blunt enough to hide the slur that inevitably muddled his speech, and the sound of drunkenness was just close enough to his usual lazy drawl that, if Himuro were anyone else, it might have been invisible.

But Himuro could tell. Himuro could _always_ tell. He could tell the night Atsushi snuck a bottle into their dorm, and Astushi drank just enough of it before Himuro returned from his study group that even a guy his size could get a little drunk. He hid the bottle in his snack cupboard, which Himuro never opened, _respecting privacy_ and all that (although Atsushi never really respected his). But Himuro didn't need to see the bottle. Ever-observant, he could tell in the way Atsushi flinched when he turned on the light and the slight slur as he said welcome back.

_'Why were you drinking by yourself?'_ Himuro asked with a frown, and Atsushi didn't really have an answer, never had much of a reason for the things he did.

_'Because I was bored,'_ the words came out a little wrong, more than just a drunken slur. Some sort of hesitance that seemed to speak of a lie. Atsushi still wasn't sure if he meant it or not.

Himuro wore the same frown now, but quickly masked it into a smile. He probably thought Atsushi didn't notice. Well, he noticed a lot more than people thought he did, even Himuro, and he tended to underestimate him less than others.

"I'll go with you." Himuro gave the people he was chatting with a polite smile and a warm goodbye, voice soft and friendly as ever. He dropped Atsushi's arm to finish off his drink - knocked it back all at once, a strangely seasoned drinker for someone Atsushi rarely saw get drunk at parties.

A man Atsushi's size wasn't made for drunkenness; his limbs were far too big and clumsy already, and Himuro kept an arm around his waist - subtle, just the palm of his hand on his hip, guiding and assuring. It gave Atsushi goosebumps, the cool of Himuro's hand on his alcohol-heated flesh. No, he was not a man meant to be drunk.

"How many have you had tonight?" Himuro asked once they reached the bar; of course he would wait to ask until then, it was just like him.

Atsushi shrugged "'Dunno," and was true; he really didn't know, never bothered counting. He only knews that for every five minutes Himuro spent making polite conversation with the people who approached their table, people who weren't _him_, he could have downed one or two or ten drinks, so the burn in his belly matched the selfish burn in his vision.

Himuro sighed, cool air puffing against the side of Atsushi's neck that had Atsushi's stomach dong flips. Or maybe it was just the alcohol.

"You're going to get a hangover, Atsushi, and I don't like playing nursemaid."

He pursed his lips, "But you're so good at it, Himuchin. If I get a hangover, bring me soup."

For some reason Himuro found that funny, laughing even as he turned to order their drinks, one for each of them. The names were too specific and too obscure for Atsushi to understand, but Himuchin was good at picking things out for him and so he stayed quiet.

They moved off to the side to wait, Atsushi dragging his feet out of more than just drunkenness; he wanted his drink as soon as possible, he didn't want to move. "But it's rude to linger if you're not ordering a drink." Something childish in Atushi's heart wanted Himuro to be rude, just a little rude.

"But Murochin, I want-" his stomach lurched.

* * *

Himuro held back his hair as Atsushi bent over the toilet, the last five sugar drinks of the night coming up and out as a frothy, Technicolor blend, sour bile and sweet confections, and Atsushi feels guilty because this is the happiest he's been all night with Himuchin's hands in his hair and on his back, slow soothing circles, shushing and cooing even after Atsushi's stomach has settled.

Tomorrow Himuro would be sure to lecture him about moderation, _I said you should only have a few, I told you_, but right now there was only soothing hands in his hair and on his back, Himuro warm and kind and shushing in his ear.

The next morning, Himuro brings him soup in bed.


End file.
